


felled in the night by the ones you think you love

by PaperRevolution



Series: outer-space mover [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Cryogenics, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Post-Divorce, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12925989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Space AU. Fëanor has a message for Nerdanel. Furthermore, Fëanor--again--has made a terrible mistake.





	felled in the night by the ones you think you love

**Author's Note:**

> The only warning I need to give here, I think, is the obligatory "Caution: Contains Curufinwë Fëanáro" warning, heh.

“The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep.”

Fëanor stares at the commlink in front of him, lit flat blue and expectant. He takes a breath. Wets his lips to speak. His hands curl and uncurl against the knees of his neatly pressed trousers.

“Nerdanel,” he says. And pauses again.

He tries to call to mind her face. The particular way her that her eyes—hazel like Kanafinwë’s; like Moryo’s—crinkle at the corners when she smiles. The sandstorm of freckles on her round cheeks and on the bridge of her nose. The wiry scrawl of her hair, and the stubborn set of her jawline. When he thinks of her now, he manages only a static image; a mental photograph. Shiny and vivid and flat. In reality, he knows, she is—was?—is always in motion.

“I just want to let you know,” he does his damnedest to keep his voice light, conversational. “How everything is going.”

But this gives him pause again. Because what can he say to her? How can he tell her what happened to their firstborn? There are no words for that, and certainly none he can say to her in a recorded message she’ll probably delete without ever listening to.

“Nolofinwë continues to frustrate the fuck out of me,” he hears himself say instead. “Everything I suggest, he has some kind of opposing argument. We’ve supposedly put aside our differences for now, but it’s…Gods, he’s just so fucking obstinate. I mean! Nelyo wants an alliance with the Doriath lot—can you imagine?—and of course my sainted brother’s backing him. They’re forcing my hand, and I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m supposed to do about it.”

He huffs a breath. This isn’t the kind of thing she’ll want to hear, he thinks.

“Anyway. The twins are—” don’t talk to her about their training. Don’t talk to her about the war. “They miss you. I know they still talk to you, but they won’t say much about it. Telvo let slip that you’re living with Arafinwë and Eärwen now. Which I just—well, you must be deathly fucking bored, with those two.” He forces a laugh. “But—you’re all right, though, aren’t you? There haven’t been any more raids? You’re safe? I have to believe the twins would tell me, if you weren’t—”

He breaks off abruptly. Something solid and jagged seems to be lodged in his throat. He swallows hard.

“You should be here with us.” The sudden force of his words startles even him. The commscreen screeches feedback, an ugly echo. “I shouldn’t have let you stay behind—I should have made you—I should’ve fought harder—Fucking hell, I love you more than anything. I love you more than life. And—Gods, when did that stop being mutual? When did you decide to put conditions on it? I never had you down as being selfish—”

“Message has exceeded time limit,” the cool, automated voice of the commlink breaks in. “Message will be sent in five seconds. To send another message, please dial again in one minute.”

Something hot and futile rises in him. Pressure balloons in his chest, and the lump in his throat is back, rocks piling up, pressure and pressure and pressure. And for a fleeting moment he thinks he might scream or break something. But what he does next is much, much worse.

Fëanor drops his head into his hands, and weeps.

*

The air in the cryo chamber is thin and chill and dry. Fëanor shuts the door behind him with uncharacteristic care and, repressing a shiver, moves towards the stasis pod set against the far wall of the room.

From behind its lightly misted glass, a pale-haired woman stares fixed and sightless.

“Hello, Ma,” says Fëanor raggedly, although he knows she can’t hear him.

Miriel, drifting bonelessly in cryostasis, is frozen at twenty-two, youth crystallised on her blank face whilst her son has grown to more than twice her age.

“Ma,” he says again, and his words catch in his throat.

The silence in the little room has a faint hum, like something waiting.

“I did something,” he makes himself say. Somehow it’s hard to make the words come even though he knows she can’t be listening. And Fëanor is never lost for words. “I did something I—might regret.”

Pause. Miriel, motionless, passes no judgement.

“I uncloaked our co-ordinates,” he tells her. “Just for a moment, but it was enough.”

Pause.

“I need to finish this.”

Pause.

“They’re coming. The MRGTH are coming. And no one knows but me.”

**Author's Note:**

> The canon-divergence continues. Am I building up to some kind of horrendous merging of Nirnaeth Arnoediad and The Fall of Gondolin, with added Fëanor? Well, I might be.


End file.
